


The Hunter Needs a Rest

by alicekittridge



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Crack?, F/F, Mild Sexual Content, POV Third Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 00:11:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16691629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicekittridge/pseuds/alicekittridge
Summary: Villanelle buys a house. (Just go with it.)





	The Hunter Needs a Rest

**Author's Note:**

> This might be crack. I don't know. I liked the idea of V buying a house just for shits and grins because she has the money for something like that. It may not be very in character and if that's the case, I do apologize; college has tendency to suck inspiration into a void. Thank you for reading, as always xx

October, 2019

The thing about houses is they offer more space than an apartment can give. Sometimes, at least. An apartment can be high up and offer a grand view of cities but can it have multiple floors? Is it secluded enough that the privacy is a bit realer? These questions and more bounce off Villanelle’s already overactive brain. She hasn’t had a job in a while. The boredom had set in on day one and there was a hole burning through her pocket and so, in her longing to get out and _do something_ , she’d ended up looking at houses. Even contacted a realtor, who has been more than willing to country-hop when it’s convenient or contact a close associate when not convenient.

            “Have you ever thought about living in the countryside?” Petra Radfield asks. They’re in London and the snow is just starting to melt away. She’s driving Villanelle from her London office and to Surrey in her Skoda Octavia.

            “I like the city,” Villanelle replies.

            “This might take some convincing, then. It’s not exactly countryside,” Petra adds, “but it’s quiet enough to trick you.” She opens the CD compartment and takes out a small catalogue. “The house I’m showing you is on page 17.”

            Villanelle flips to the page. The house is listed at 2 million pounds and is very modern on the outside. The English charm is on the inside, showing in the furniture and the architecture and the colors. The description says the house was completed in November of 2018.

            Villanelle says, “I hope it lives up to the photos.”

            Today she is Sophie Segal, native of Paris, travelling back and forth between there and London for work. As to how she came across such a vast fortune of money, half of it was inheritance and the other half of it is a well-paying job. Sophie Segal dresses how Villanelle prefers, with the exception of bright colors. Her wardrobe is dark, the only splashes of color being blues.

            “Are you entirely settled on England, Sophie? Most of the places we’ve looked at are here.” There had been some in Paris and in Amsterdam and in Berlin, all places that Villanelle had liked well enough. Paris had been her favorite, of course, but then she thought that, if Eve were ever to come searching for her again, she’d find her a little too easily. It was best to have a residence where Eve would least expect. But Villanelle admits, “I don’t know.” She’s never liked England much to begin with, even if it did have its perks.

            “Hesitant to leave Paris, huh?” Petra’s smiling a little. It’s a fixating smile, bright in the grey light. “Quite understandable. It’s what you’re used to.”

            “My boss likes me to take risks.”

            “There’s reward in it.” Petra shrugs. “You might like this one, Sophie. It’s right up there with the trends.”

            When they arrive, the temperature has dropped and it’s raining. They exit the Skoda with umbrellas and walk up the gravel drive and to the porch of the house. So far it’s like the photographs: large glass windows, steel, smooth outside walls. Petra unlocks the front door with a small gold key and holds the door open for her, gesturing for Villanelle to enter first. The entryway is large, the floors marble, the staircase wooden with metal railing and curving to the right. From here there’s a view of the sitting room and the kitchen and a hallway that leads to the first two bedrooms. The glass windows bring in the natural light, minimizing the need for the artificial ones.

            “First impressions?” says Petra, shutting the door.

            “It’s nice.” She walks to the kitchen, Petra following. It’s massive, enough room for several pots and pans and utensils and all the food Villanelle can afford. She can see herself here after jobs, cooking dinner for one. Or two, if she invited Eve. “I want to see the upstairs.”

            “Go explore. I’ll be down here.”

            Upstairs are two more bedrooms, all fairly spacious and already furnished with queen beds and modern nightstands and dressers. Then there’s the master, the walls not glass but regular sheetrock with a large window at the left side that shows the backyard. It has a little area for reading, the bookshelves built-in and almost touching the ceiling. At the foot of the bed is a wall and mounted on it is an 82 inch flat-screen.

            The bathroom continues the marble tile from the entryway. The shower is the size of a hospital’s elevator. The tub is a deep soaker, intricate metal shelves beside it that hold towels and scented salts. A small skylight is just above it. Villanelle climbs into it, gets comfortable. It isn’t her old bathtub at her Paris apartment, with its old-fashioned pink and black tile and gold fish faucets, but it might do. While contemplating it she tells herself this is a little closer to Eve. She won’t have to travel as far to see her in her off time. And again she wonders why this is necessary at all.

            She exits the tub, makes her way back to the kitchen where Petra is texting someone and helping herself to a glass of water, and tells the realtor she’d like to buy the house.

 

—

One week later Villanelle is replacing the furniture the house came with with her own choices, and stocking her bookshelves in the master bedroom. She’d ordered many different Penguin Classics, a selection of non-fiction novels dedicated to crime and women, anthologies of French literature and poetry, and a few American authors she’d heard of while travelling. Soon enough the bookshelves are occupied, with a little room to spare. She goes back downstairs, where movers are unwrapping the new furniture and putting it all in their proper places. Once done, the head, Mark Moran, comes to her and asks, “What about the upstairs, Ms. Segal?”

            “There was one king bed for the first bedroom,” says Villanelle. “The pillowtop one. And a desk.”

            “Right. I think those are the last.”

            Villanelle gives him a smile. “Perfect.”

            She gets a call from her handler just as the last of the movers are filing out the front door.

            _“You’re not in Paris,”_ says Vladimir.

            “There’s a job for me, then?”

            _“Not exactly…”_

“Then there’s no need for me just yet.”

            _“They want you evaluated.”_

Villanelle groans. “I had one two weeks ago. Besides, I’m busy.”

            _“What with?”_

A pause. She blows through her lips. “Time off.”

            _“In Surrey?”_

“Must you stalk me?”

            _“I’m merely keeping an eye on you, Villanelle,”_ Vladimir says. _“I’d hate for you to get in trouble again.”_

“Let me have my time off,” Villanelle tells him. “Call me when you have something productive for me to do.” She hangs up, stuffs the phone into her pocket. She looks around the newly furnished house, pleased with the results. She decides it’s time to see Eve.

 

            Eve’s door is unlocked, and as soon as she steps into the entryway Villanelle smells dinner. Out of politeness she takes her boots off and leaves them by the door, padding through the apartment in sock feet. It’s warm, a pleasant change from the cold rain just outside. Rounding the corner is rounding into the kitchen and she freezes slightly at the first sight of Eve, wondering when that reaction will stop happening, if ever. I’ll be old and retired, she thinks, and I’ll still feel this way.

            “Do you need a hand with that?” she asks.

            Eve stills, hand brandishing a wooden spoon, which had been stirring something just seconds earlier. She’s wearing sweatpants and a comfortable but poor-looking robe, and her little feet are bare. Eventually Eve turns the burner down and says, “You’re early. I thought you said I wouldn’t expect you until December.”

            Villanelle shrugs, knowing Eve will hear the movement. “I had free time.”

            “Nothing better to do?”

            “I already spent a modest amount of money.”

            Eve turns, leaning against the counter. “On… what?”

            “What’re you making?” Villanelle questions, stepping to the stove. Eve moves aside, to the sink. The pan has mushrooms and chopped spicy sausage, and another, larger pot has fettucine noodles in it.

            “It’s uh… an Italian dish,” Eve says softly.

            “You forgot the olive oil.”

            “That goes in after everything’s mixed together. Do you really have time off?”

            “Yes, Eve,” Villanelle replies, glancing at her. “You don’t look very happy to see me.” And she looks tired, but her hair is very much awake.

            “Your visit is unexpected and I’ve had a shit workday—”

            “What would make it better?”

            “Dinner,” Eve replies. “I suppose you should stay, now that you’re here.”

            Dinner is spent mostly in silence, filled in by little conversations about their lives, the events that’ve happened the past two months. Villanelle enjoys the dish, even compliments Eve on it. “And to think you couldn’t cook for shit.”

            “Not my fault my ex-husband was a five-star chef.”

            “I wouldn’t call the shepherd’s pie five-star. More like a two.”

            “Probably meant to be heated up in the oven anyway,” Eve says, looking slightly put-out.

            Villanelle sets her fork aside, takes another sip of rosé. “Do you miss him?”

            Eve shakes her head. “Not a lot. The uh… the quiet’s taking some getting used to.”

            “You could get a cat.”

            “Oh, I’m not getting one of those.”

            “Come on,” says Villanelle. “You get a chatty one, a Siamese, or a calico, and you could have whole conversations with it. Never a quiet moment.”

            There’s an amused expression on Eve’s face when she asks, “Are you seriously a cat person?”

            Villanelle shrugs. “I like them,” she replies. “They have a sense of space but come for affection when they desire it.”

            “Unlike you.”

            “You think I don’t give you your space, Eve?”

            “You’ve broken into my apartment several times—”

            “Because you’re expecting me—”

            “—because you can’t get enough of me,” Eve says.

            Villanelle stares at Eve over her wineglass. A grain of truth. Maybe that’s what this is after all. Trying to sate a constant desire. Buying what’s essentially a vacation home just to be closer to Eve, so she doesn’t have to travel as far, be as tired. Maybe she _can’t_ get enough of Eve. The sex, when it happens, lasts hours. Eve is a constant presence in the back of her mind, even when Villanelle is fucking someone else, or is between jobs. She slowly sets her wineglass down, asks, “And what about you? Why do you always expect me?”

            “You go where you please,” replies Eve. She gets up from the table and starts to clear the dishes.

            Villanelle finishes her wine before she gives the glass away.

            Eve continues, “I think you feel… safer here. Or something. You’ve never liked London and yet y-you’re here so frequently—”

            Villanelle rises, steps to Eve in two large strides, sets a hand on her waist. “I don’t need you to psychoanalyze me,” she murmurs.

            “What, you’ve already got someone doing that?”

            “More or less.” She moves Eve’s hair to one shoulder and bends to press a kiss to her newly exposed neck. The skin is soft and warm and it smells like Eve’s shampoo and Villanelle sighs, desire blossoming.

            “Fuck,” Eve whispers.

            “Hmm?”

            “Get in my bedroom.”

            They stumble there, kissing all the while. Eve’s mouth tastes like olive oil and wine and Villanelle wants more, wants those flavored kisses on her skin but she’ll have Eve first. She undoes the tie of Eve’s robe and the two sides parting reveals a thin shirt, with no bra underneath. She cups Eve’s breasts, kisses her, teases her nipples with thumbs until Eve’s breathing wildly against her mouth.

            “I bought a house,” Villanelle says later, against Eve’s bare thigh.

            Eve picks her head up from her pillow. “What?”

            “In Surrey. It’s very spacious. Like a mansion without all the bling.”

            “Jesus Christ.” Eve actually laughs. “Cats I can understand, but a house…”

            “You’d like it.” Villanelle kisses higher. “It’s quiet. There’s books.” She drags Eve closer, licks between her thighs and Eve releases a shaky breath. “Didn’t you tell me you wished you could read more?”

            “Don’t… tell me you bought the books for me.”

            “Does it count if I thought of you while I bought them?” Villanelle murmurs, but Eve doesn’t reply, just buries a hand in her hair. Villanelle picks the rhythm back up, making her enjoyment known, reveling in Eve arching into her when she comes. Afterwards Villanelle kisses gently back up Eve’s body, tugs on her nipples with teeth. Despite her exhaustion, Eve manages to slip a hand between her legs and Villanelle groans against her chest, opens herself. “Right there, Eve,” she breathes.

            “Shit, come here…” Eve drags her up by the shoulders.

            “Why a house?” Eve asks. They’re on separate sides of the bed, cooling off. “I thought you liked apartments better.”

            “I suppose I’m tired of apartments,” Villanelle says. “Even when you have one to yourself you still hear other people.” She’s starting to drift off. She hopes Eve won’t kick her out just yet. “I can give you the address, if you’d like. You can use it to watch movies.”

            “I found your place once and trashed it. It… wasn’t very civil.”

            “Sometimes I like surprises, Eve,” Villanelle says. “I don’t have to invite you.” She turns her back to Eve, lets her feet kiss Eve’s shins. “Think of it as getting even.”


End file.
